A box of chocolates, a
huge staple for Valentine’s Day, is generally off limits. There are very few chocolates that I
can eat. In fact, most are deemed
deadly: those candy coated sweets with the mysterious centres – a mystery that,
for me, usually means an unhappy date with a hospital emergency room. A neighbourly woman on the street where
I grew up used to get her son to bite into his own chocolate to prove the
centres were only filled with crème.
Which one did I inevitably pick?
That’s right, the chocolate laced with my enemy, the peanut. This was just one of the numerous times
I ran home sick from a friend’s house.
There
are a few more candy bars than chocolates that I enjoy. Some were known to be
peanut-free before the “peanut-free” era.
Trial and error was our homemade allergy test: I would taste a tiny amount: If there were an allergic reaction, that food wouldn’t be
eaten again. No reaction? Yes! A new treat! One such test involved a university
friend holding my epi-pen in one hand, and the telephone in the other while I
tasted a particular Swiss chocolate candy for the first time. Success! It is, presently, the most popular treat received at my
house on occasions such as Christmas and Valentine’s Day.
For
a time, it was the chocolate that made me sick, not just the peanuts. I stopped eating chocolate for about
six years after repeated stomach upsets.
Perhaps I’d have given it up sooner had it not tasted so good! Paper valentines and peppermint hearts
filled my desk at school during those chocolate-free years, instead of the
individually wrapped goodies. And the Easter bunny? Well! He had a
hard time coming up with treat ideas for me between my tummy’s dislike of
chocolate and my immune system’s hatred for the peanut. Cute, porcelain bunnies
still sit on my dresser that had been placed in my Easter basket throughout
those years. Personally, I think
in the long term I scored better than my little sister did with her chocolate
covered lips and wide, sugar-crazed eyes even though it would have been nice to
have a lick or two!
I
knew that one day I would meet a man who, if he loved me, would have to give up
peanut butter. And, sure enough, I
met him. Mr. Man. We vaguely recall how the allergy
discussion came about, but inevitably he realized peanut butter was not in the
cards. And seeing his sacrifice made me love him even more. Mr. Man would not only give up this one
staple, but would continually make sure where we ate would accommodate my
allergy. At first he would say he
was the allergic party, but then we realized the kitchen staff were nervously
watching him through the door instead
of me. He joked about swooning dramatically in order to freak them
out, but that probably would not have gotten us a table on our next attempt at
a reservation.
A full year of marriage
went by before Mr. Man witnessed my anaphylactic reaction to a peanut
product. We were at a friend’s
wedding, and the meal that came out contained what looked suspiciously like a
peanut sauce. We called over our
waiter and asked her if it was safe, and she complied. Thus began an allergic person’s worst
nightmare – she ran up to us in a matter of seconds (after I’d put the food in
my mouth) and exclaimed that she had been wrong. Mr. Man and I jumped up, my throat in flames, and raced to
the hospital.
If
I wasn’t going to die from the reaction, I was surely going to die in the car
ride to the hospital. It was soon
evident that Mr. Man was not the greatest while under duress. He drove like a madman, swerving around
cars, even to the point of crossing over the median and driving into oncoming
traffic! We got there in one piece, but a few years later, I would remind him
of that drive as we were headed to the hospital to have our first baby. He was under strict instruction not to
cross medians or go faster than the speed limit of my choice.
Eventually,
chocolate was again on the menu as I grew out of my tummy troubles. And it arrived in greater variety since
so many products were now labeled “peanut-free”. One candy bar had been around for years, but I did not try
it until I was in my thirties. We
said I would be a perfect spokes model for the candy bar. I would hold out the candy, smile at
the camera and say, “This is the first ____ bar I have ever eaten since I have
an allergy to peanuts. Now that
they are peanut-free, I am going to have my first bite!” And then I would bite it, love it, and
earn millions. Great idea, but we
just acted it out in my living room instead.
Now,
as a parent of two, Valentine’s Day involves wonderful handmade creations in
red and white, mostly made of construction paper, sparkles and paper
doilies. Painted handprints and
excited smiles make up for any lack of sweets. These past few years have brought joyful moments instead of
the “I ate that nutty chocolate and now I’m throwing up” memories.
The
kids know that we are a peanut-free family. They are thankfully not allergic to anything, but realize if
they touch it, then it is as if Mommy touched it. I have picked my son up from day-care only to break out into
hives because of something he had pulled out of their garbage can. Every time I picked him up the reaction
would continue, until he was bathed and his clothes washed. The first time Mr. Man ever took our
oldest child away for the weekend, the boy was surprised and confused when his
daddy brought out a jar of peanut butter.
He knew this wasn’t allowed, but his dad reassured him that after two
nights away from Mommy, she would be okay. (And that he had my permission!)
Most
date nights, we have tried to go out for dinner, but sometimes, it just isn’t
possible. Our small town in
southern Ontario does not have many fancy places where we could eat out. And most times it is not worth the
effort. I’ve reacted to food at a
Lebanese restaurant and had to drive myself to the hospital. I’ve handed back dessert pizzas at a
local pizza joint since it came with peanuts decorating the top. Some places think scraping off the nuts
would then be okay. Sigh. And up until a few years ago, many pubs
had shelled peanuts on the counters and floors. Now, almost all local restaurants tell me not to bother with
dessert or I am offered a fruit dish or crème caramel (which I dislike
immensely). An evening out at a
restaurant can quickly become a total disaster if the kitchen staff is not
knowledgeable on what they must do to accommodate my allergy. On the other
hand, it can be safe but bland and boring. Mr. Man knows that an enjoyable date with me would not
involve food at all, but perhaps a bouquet of flowers, taking a turn on the
dance floor or a night in watching a movie and eating something I had
baked.
So,
I’ll let you know how Valentine’s Day turns out this year. Maybe it will involve
long-stemmed daisies with a side of milk chocolate, maybe it will be a small
party with close friends, but chances are it will not be the mad dash to the hospital,
wielding my epi-pen like a weapon as in past years. I am sure my Valentine, the ever sensible and safe,
Mr. Man, will come through.
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